Chapter Text
Wolffe was mad.
It wasn't inherently new for him to be so, but still worth mentioning.
This time, though, he had viable reasons to be. He'd argue he had for quite some time.
After all, for a year, a standard year, he'd been stuck in the same small ship as them.
The reasons Fox had left in the first place.
Why he'd taken every single Corrie and fled Coruscant the second the war was declared over.
Why his twin never said goodbye.
Yeah, no, Wolffe was pissed.
Don't get him wrong; he loved all his brothers, and of course, batchmates were held specially to any clone—but what his batch did? The slander they spread among the ranks? The hate they spewed in comm messages?
All to the half-youngest of them, the batch baby, to their own brother?
That wasn't something one could just forget for the sake of family.
That was a statement, a stance made clear, a choice that went far past the lines of teasing or just blowing off steam.
It was resentment, plain and cruel, and Wolffe wasn't complicit.
A hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and intentional over his civvy shirt. "Hey, Cody says we're almost there, and I'd appreciate it if you would stop glaring at me like some caged animal and try to—"
A year, an entire year of being stuck with them.
He'd had enough.
"Don't—" he stood, getting in Bly's face—"touch me," he ground out, eyes murderous, hand drifting to the blaster strapped to his hip.
His brother threw his hands up, turning on his heel and walking away with the exasperated air of someone who'd finally decided to stop trying.
He could hear him complaining through the thin ship walls, muttering to everyone and no one about their rabid sibling being a bloodthirsty lunatic.
Wolffe couldn't bring himself to be sorry, not in the slightest.
They wouldn't care if he was or not, anyway.
Sure, he'd been exceptionally volatile in the last week, lashing out more, not being silent when the others started up again, no longer keeping the peace for the sake of the mission.
But, honestly, why would he be? What had they ever done to deserve his effort?
Every attempt at reason was denied with a passion that made his blood boil—and Wolffe got the idea that they had just come with him to start a fight.
He just couldn't get it through their thick skulls, could he?
So really, what reason did he have to keep trying? It's not like he needed them, and definitely not after the last informant they'd contacted.
Wolffe had the information he needed, and without the help of his so-called batchmates.
He'd found him.
He knew where his twin was.
A year of searching, a year of keeping his kriffing mouth shut, and he'd finally—
—found him.
Fox was good at hiding when he wanted to be, Wolffe would give him that.
"I'd be careful if I were you, sir," his Corrie escort—a shiny, must've been—warned hesitantly. "He's been in there for the past day, and no one's been able to even talk to him."
Wolffe smiled, something meant to be comforting but probably fell short—it was hard to look nice when half his face, still numb from painkillers and plastered with bandages, didn't really move.
"Thanks for the heads-up, kid," he said. "I'll take it from here."
The Corrie nodded, scurrying off to whatever he had to do within the Den, leaving Wolffe alone in the dim light.
It was nice to be in the dark, he decided, the bulbs not making his migraine any worse than it already was.
Thanks, neons of Coruscant.
In retrospect, he probably should've listened to the Temple medic when they'd told him to stay put, threatening sedation and whatnot—the usual—but he had other priorities at the moment.
Healing could wait; Fox couldn't.
He had to hand it to his twin, though; hiding in some lower-level training room was smart—a hard place to find someone when one didn't know their way around the maze the Corries called home.
But Wolffe had the Guard on his side.
That, and he knew how to ask nicely at front desks—besides, who could turn down a guy with a missing eye?
Fox couldn't keep him away if he tried.
"Fox?" he called, starting the tedious task of splicing the door lock. It was harder than it should've been, but he blamed that on the missing depth perception. "I know you're in there!"
Whatever sounds behind the door stopped, punching bag chains clicking as it swung itself steady in the absence of someone hitting it, leaving Wolffe in a loud silence within the empty, stale-feeling hallway.
Then, quietly, sullenly, came a nearly unbearable "Leave me alone, Wolffe" that felt like ice down his spine.
Because, of course.
What else would his twin say?
Wolffe rolled his eyes—eye—at his brother's dramatics, hard enough that he probably did something permanent.
Which, in hindsight, was a horrible idea, given his nausea.
He didn't care.
All he knew was Fox needed him, to see that he was actually okay and not just laid up dying in a medbay somewhere—that's how they'd always worked, especially after...
After Abregado.
They just had to see the other standing, injured or not—an undeniable confirmation that the war hadn't taken them yet.
That they weren't the last twin standing.
That the reports hadn't lied again.
"When have I ever—"
"—listened to you?" he demanded, glaring into Rex's narrowed eyes. "Hm?"
Rex took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Wolffe, I was just saying that maybe we sould think more about this before we just—"
Wolffe growled, a low sound from deep in his throat.
He wasn't about to just stand there and let his twin be slandered again, have his morals questioned—especially when he wasn't even there to defend himself.
Never.
And not by Rex, of all people.
"Oh, you were just saying, huh?" he spat, interrupting the younger man and crossing his arms, a fire in his remaining eye. "Just like the last time you called Fox a murderer, right? A cold-hearted shooter, if I'm remembering correctly?"
Rex's face changed in an instant, a cloud passing over his gaze, hands balling into fists at his sides—but Cody stepped in before an actual fight could break out.
Pity.
Wolffe would've loved to give him a black eye.
"Keep it together, you two," Cody scolded, standing between them and pushing Rex back, knowing such an attempt on Wolffe would just get him hit. "We'll be there soon, and the last thing we need is to be bleeding by the time we land."
Rex scoffed. "Oh, yes sir, whatever you say, sir," he bowed, his glare never leaving Wolffe, disappearing behind the cockpit doors a moment later.
Wolffe was going to end him.
Cody sighed, as if his life were an unfair burden laid upon his shoulders, sitting heavily in a jump seat. "Listen, Wolffe," he started, all high and mighty, rubbing his temples. "I know you're mad and all, but we need to find him before you can kill us, okay? So just... chill out a bit. We're doing this for you, remember?"
Oh, no, he wasn't mad, not at all; that would be silly, and Wolffe was not a silly man.
No, he was far beyond that.
He was livid.
"How dare you—"
"—try to defy me! This treason will not stand!" Thorn laughed, his horrible posh accent wobbling in his efforts, struggling to keep a straight face.
Fox tackled him before he could continue.
"Agh—unhand me, you brute!"
The atrocious recreation of the CG's last escort mission turned into a sparring match, devolving further into chaos as Thire came in, an odd amount of his armor missing and a bandana tied around his head.
He was making finger guns, stepping into the room like the lead in one of those Western romance holos Thorn made them watch, all hips and no decorum whatsoever.
"Wait, wait—pause," Thorn demanded, still in a headlock on the floor. "Who the kriff are you supposed to be?"
Wolffe was downright cackling.
He was on medical leave for another standard week, bored out of his mind, when Thorn had barged in, pretending to be some regal, high-society nattie.
He didn't even care that he was probably tearing his stitches out.
His abdomen would survive.
"I'm a thug," Thire scoffed, like it was obvious. "Duh."
"A thug? That was supposed to be Fox!"
Thire looked put out, ensemble seeming more and more ridiculous the longer Wolffe stared at it. "Dude, there were two! Another one came in after the first one got stunned, remember?"
"Yeah, after we dealt with the first one!"
Fox gave up, letting Thorn go and standing. "I didn't agree to be somebody's side thug," he huffed, moving back to Wolffe's bedside. "I quit!"
The other two commanders immediately started whining at him, but Fox was already getting comfortable, making Wolffe scoot over to accommodate his taking up space.
He leaned into the comfort offered by his twin, shifting a bit to avoid pulling his stitches more than he already had.
The healers would be pissed if they had to redo them so soon.
"You agreed, though!" Thire pouted, crossing his arms petulantly. "And I just got here."
Wolffe sighed at him, a fond look no doubt in his eye—he just seemed so young sometimes, his actions reminding Wolffe that he really was only nine.
He should still be with his batch, for Force's sake, not suffering in the gutters with the rest of them.
"I don't care," Fox stated, an air about him. "I did my job as first thug, so it's your turn now, kid."
Wolffe nodded solemnly, letting the light atmosphere steal away his melancholy, leaning further into his twin. "Yep, blow me away."
The younger man very obviously resented that statement, pulling a visitors chair over and—
—landing heavily, the ship stabilizing at what felt like the last minute, but he couldn't care less.
He stood alone in the hull, pack thrown over his shoulder and his gray-marked armor stuffed in a duffel at his feet.
Wolffe was intent on disembarking first, no matter the safety hazards.
He didn't want to deal with them for a second longer if he didn't have to.
He just wanted his twin.